


In Memoriam

by marchingjaybird



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve finally says goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

In the morning, he aches. In a good way, in a bone-deep lazy satisfied way. He stirs in the bed, twisting and turning, kicking out his legs and tensing his abs and raising his arms over his head the way he had them last night and if he cants his hips just right he imagines that he can still feel Steve inside. One hand slips down, presses against his belly, and he smiles, slow and sweet and secret.

Steve is gone, which is to be expected. He throws on a robe and pads down the stairs, nostrils flared to catch the scent of coffee or - if he's lucky - pancakes and bacon. There is nothing so homey when he reaches the kitchen, just a discarded mug. The coffee in the carafe is stone cold. Steve has been gone a long time.

He microwaves himself a cup and sits, sipping it, as he evaluates his reaction to this abandonment. Everything had seemed fine last night. Steve had been awkward at first, hesitant, but he'd wanted it. That, at least, Tony did not doubt. And he'd curled around Tony afterwards, holding him close, kissing his forehead, and those big hands had stroked up and down his spine until he'd slipped off to sleep, pillowed on Steve's broad shoulder.

So what has changed between then and now?

"Jarvis," he says.

"Yes, sir?" answers the disembodied voice.

"I don't suppose you know where Captain Rogers has disappeared to," he says.

"He headed south, sir," Jarvis says promptly.

"South?" Tony is mildly surprised by that. "He left the city?"

"He passed Baltimore an hour ago," Jarvis says, with no hint of accusation. That is one of the perks of having an AI as a butler; it doesn't judge when he spies on his friends.

"Really? And he's still going?" Tony pauses for a moment, chewing his lip. "He doesn't know anyone down there, does he?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir." That's as good as a no. He sets down his coffee cup and stands.

"I'm going to take a shower," he says. "Tell me if he comes back."

"Of course, sir."

He pulls up a screen as he's washing his hair, projecting a zoomed in map of the East Coast onto the tiles. It only takes a moment of study for him to realize where Steve has gone. Not DC, which _would_ make sense had Tony not also experienced the morbid desire to chase down his demons and confront them. He taps the dot on the map with his forefinger, lips drawing into a sad smile.

***

He flies the armor down to Arlington but packs it away before entering the cemetery. This isn't an intervention or an emergency. It's just a guy looking after his friend.

People stare as he makes his way down the wide paths. Some of them murmur, cupping their hands, pointing their fingers. He knows what this is, the human fascination with celebrity, and while usually he is happy to acknowledge the onlookers, he has more important matters to which he must attend.

He cuts across the grass, hands in his pockets, feeling a grave sort of sadness descend on him. Not the way he'd anticipated spending the day after the night he finally coaxed Steve Rogers into bed, and yet somehow right. They both need the togetherness that they discovered last night, but Steve hasn't had the chance to put it all right in his head yet. He has a lot of baggage left to sort through, and this... well, it's a morbid first step, but it's still a first step.

He finds Steve exactly where he knew he would and stops next to him, saying nothing. At first, Steve does not acknowledge him. His eyes are fixed on the grave, reading the words over and over. _In Loving Memory..._ Is there any more meaningless phrase?

"I should have left a note," Steve says finally. He doesn't look up. Neither does Tony.

"It's fine," Tony answers. "I understand why you didn't."

"I woke up and I felt so... turned around." There is a plaintive note in Steve's voice; he is pleading with Tony to empathize. It's not necessary. Tony knows. "I had to come down here and... see it. I guess. It's the first time. I couldn't look at it before."

"You always have to face it eventually," Tony offers.

"Did you?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," Tony answers. "A couple of months before they found you, actually. I went back and I just... looked at it. The cave." His hand rises unconsciously, brushes the reactor in his chest. It had been a fraught time for him, problems piling up like stones in a cairn, threatening to bury him. He'd gone back to Afghanistan to acknowledge what happened to him there, to look on the stuff of his nightmares and own it. His mouth had been ashy with fright, his hands still shake when he thinks about it, but the monolith his fears had become, the legendary status they'd gained in his own mind, all was washed away as he stared at the place where he'd been reborn.

"Did it help?" Steve asks. Tony thinks about the nightmares, the flashes of terror that have no basis or trigger, the fact that there are still things he cannot smell without retching, things he cannot hear without breaking into a cold sweat. He thinks of how it was before he went back, before he forced himself to acknowledge that the place itself had no power over him. And he nods.

"It helped," he says softly. "What about you?"

Steve reaches out and takes his hand. "I think so," he says. "I just thought I should say goodbye, I suppose. Let him rest finally." The fingers of his free hand brush the top of the gravestone. He hesitates, then turns away, tugging Tony with him.

And Tony follows, though like Lot's wife, he cannot help but glance back at the stone, bedecked with garlands, overflowing with flowers and dog tags and toys and other gifts of appreciation, tokens of sorrow, trinkets and baubles that they never thought he would see. The words are worn by a thousand caressing fingers, comrades and admirers and people to whom his name means something deep down that they cannot hope to articulate. 

_In Loving Memory, Steven Rogers_


End file.
